So Sayeth the Red Bird

Morning's stained-glass light. A few melodies ascending. We lack nothing – or so the tune goes.

Steel cut oats, coffee with cream, heat rising from still waters. Steam is a comforting way to carry the intangible.

What does it mean to hate father and mother, sister and brother, husband and child . . . and even one's self, all to be a disciple of the Serpent Treader?

In the true vineyard of life we find out that we are servants, not lords. So sayeth the red bird in the pines.

I looked straight through all the jokes and said, “not every body enjoys a fool.” I sleep alone and now you know why.

I used to have this dream when I was younger of being swallowed by a giant fish. Swimming in the lake unaware, I would suddenly become entombed inside the tight, wet tongue of a whale. It was hard to breathe but I could not die. I could not die.

Sun-warmed shoulders, freckled and rounded. Serious eyes, smiling. A purified kiss. Dreams are dreams but we do not die. Beloved, I am a readied apple, crisp, with beads of dew. I fall when it's time; but who is there?